Murder By Degree
by PhantomSpannah
Summary: When branded bodies start appearing in London, Sherlock and John must track down the capital's latest serial killer. As evidence mounts up and tensions rise, will more personal truths be uncovered for the pair to examine. And more importantly, will it be too late?
1. Cluedo

_A London hotel room, three months earlier:_

"A little lower…" the woman breathed, her voice husky with desire.

The man was knelt on the plush carpet, head dipped between her spread thighs. His hands firmly gripped her knees, keeping them pushed far enough apart to allow for his movements and her heightened pleasure. He was fully occupied with his task, mouth and trembling efforts bent to her sensual apex.

"Mmmpphh", she moaned, her eyes flickering shut as though in the grip of desire. Biting on her lower lip, she gave a provocative roll of her hips, pressing herself to him. She had to make sure her lover was fully engaged in the act. The echoing vibration of his lips against her was confirmation enough.

Her eyes snapped open, clear and alert, incongruous with the torpid dance of seduction. She took in the heavy velvet of the curtains and the glitter of refracted light and shadows, and felt a moment of hesitation. She would miss this life, the glamour and glitz of it all; the anticipatory rush of desire as she learnt of their next meeting; the heady hum of simultaneous lust and satiation that remained with her for the days following each encounter. Yet she knew that it could not continue.

It had started a month ago with that letter. Four neatly typed words that had caused her to drop the coffee-mug she had been holding.

'I KNOW ABOUT HIM.'

Four little words that spelled the end not only for her crockery, but for her forty-three years of marriage. She recalled shoving the offensive note in her dressing gown pocket as she hastily swept the broken pieces into the bin. Who could have known about her and the banker? What did they want? Why send the note? The rest of the day had been a blur of noise: children screeching in the playground, staff gossiping over their tea and biscuits, and her husband grumbling as he despaired at the latest political offerings on the six o'clock news.

It was only when she had climbed into bed and popped her ear-plugs in (her spouse's snoring really was the limit) that she could clear her mind a little and think. So somebody had sent her a note – a jealous wife? No, couldn't be, he had always told her he wasn't married. Girlfriend, then? Possibly. For all she knew it could be just a kid from school, a trouble-maker trying to wind her up, there were plenty of those. And as to what the sender wanted, well that, she thought grimly, was anyone's guess. What should she do? Again, no idea, and if she was being honest, she didn't want to _do_ anything. The hotel room meetings were clearly forbidden fruit and the danger of being discovered was primarily a turn-on; if anything, the note that morning added an extra edge. So she had decided to ignore the threat for the moment; there was nothing particularly damning about what was written, and besides, she thought lasciviously, the rewards far outweighed the risks.

So she let the affair progress and when another note followed the first, and more followed that. The notes, which had grown more explicit and threatening, fluttered sporadically through her letter-box and were immediately swept away, a dark secret burning a hole through her dressing gown pocket. The reactionary flames fear and lust built steadily as each new note stoked the pyre she had built for herself, and she, sitting astride it like some deviant Guy, had known that there must be an ultimatum soon. When the package had arrived that morning, she knew that her day had come. The day the lies must end and when she would have to pick a side.

There was a note which simply read:

'YOU CHOOSE.'

And wrapped in a lightly oiled cloth was the revolver.

She groaned, her consciousness shifting back to the present moment. At the foot of the bed, her lover hummed a reply between her thighs, taking her vocalisation as an indication of his sexual prowess. However the noise was one of grim enlightenment, of realising that the time had come to make that choice and that there could be no going back. It had been simple really, she supposed: the lover or the husband? As she reached down for the stashed weapon, she allowed a slight smile to twitch her lips – her lover was good, but let's face it, plenty more fish and all that. There was only one man who might continue to pay her mortgage.

Her hand reared up, an ugly metal erection clasped in it. She held her breath, squeezed the safety off, and fired off the brass load…

* * *

><p><em>Present day, 221B Baker Street<br>_

"BANG!"

"Sherlock, really –"

"Bang, John, BANG!"

"Yes, I did hear you the first ti-"

"Oh come _on_, John! You're telling me that someone has been murdered, possibly with a revolver, and there is absolutely no evidence of entry or exit wounds, bullet fragmentation, gunpowder traces, or reliable witnesses? Anyone with an ounce of common sense would be able to deduce that the weapon may or may not be evidence-worthy. I mean, _you_ could figure that one out-"

"-is that supposed to be a compliment, Sher-"

"-and it goes without saying that this piece of pipe – I mean, who actually keeps spare sections of plumbing just lying around?-"

"Sherlock."

"– or this other wieldy tool would leave some blindingly obvious indentations in a person's skull or rib-cage –"

"_Sherlock_."

"- And how could an _amateur_ fail to spot the burns or bruising from strangulation with this cord, even if they failed to spot the stray rope fibers that would undoubtedly litter the floor. I just-"

"SHERLOCK!"

"What?" The great detective shuddered to a forced halt, blinking at his companion as though he had just appeared out of the ether.

"Well, now that you've stopped talking" John's tone was wry, "there are a few things I would like to bring your attention to." Sherlock started to open his mouth and John, raising one pre-emptive eyebrow, carried on.

"Firstly, you're pouring tea down yourself again." The detective looked down in confusion to see that had been holding his cup at an angle (roughly 33° by his reckoning) and, judging by the staining pattern on his shirt, had somehow allowed a third of a cup to trickle, unnoticed, down his chest. John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's futile efforts to dry his clothing with sheets of newspaper and continued.

"Secondly," he swept his hands to encompass the scene before them, "let me put it on record, since you obviously didn't understand me the first time around, I am NEVER playing CLUEDO with you AGAIN."

"But, John-"

"Shut-up. I don't care how improbable the murder is or how inept the witnesses, players and suspects appear to be. It is a game, Sherlock, designed to played once on Christmas Day and then argued over before being put back in its box and shut away until some intrepid child rediscovers it and the whole cycle can begin again. It is not, I repeat, NOT, based upon an actual crime that urgently needs solving by the world's top consulting detective. Games are not cases. Please, please, for my sanity, file that useful fact somewhere on a little 'John' table in that great mind palace of yours."

"It's a drawer actually."

"Listen, it could be in a chest freezer for all I care, Sherlock, just please, let's not play this game ever again?"

Sherlock pouted, "ok, so we won't play Cluedo again. Now, what was the third item that you wished to 'bring to my attention'?"

John looked surprised. "How did you know there was a third thing?"

"Oh come on, John, there's always a third thing. Besides, you mentioned there being multiple topics to be discussed and failed to use a final connective when you mentioned the second item. Assuming that 'four' is too many topics to be considered 'a few', this must be your third and final one. Also, under the assumption that you have grown accustomed to my dramatic flair, it logically follows that your final item of note must be of the most interest to me. That being the case, what is it?"

Slightly unnerved by the speed at which Sherlock's mind worked, even late in the evening, John took a few moments to consider. The detective's entire focus was now on him, but the doctor, knowing how rare an opportunity it was to hold all the cards, deliberately took his time in answering.

"I got a text…"

"Yes?"

"…from Greg Lestrade."

"Was it a case, John? Please, tell me it's a case."

"It's a case."

He could feel Sherlock leaning towards him, his body following the direction of his mind. John unconsciously considered for a brief moment the weight of that gaze which was directed at him. He couldn't say precisely why, but he felt something in him jump ever so slightly in his stomach – nerves? Shaking himself slightly, he decided that the unaccustomed power-play must be going to his head.

Sighing, he held out his phone for Sherlock and motioned for him to look at it.

There was a photo of a Gothic red 'S' and 'B' intertwined, on a pale background. Underneath the image were three word:

'BRANDING? GET SHERLOCK.'

"I take it by your silence that you're interested?" John bent his head slightly to catch his companion's reaction.

He needn't have bothered. Sherlock's grin of morbid joy lit the room.


	2. The Morgue

"Well you two took your sweet time getting here." DI Lestrade looked tired and fed-up, yet more or less resigned to the fact that Sherlock kept a different schedule to everyone else around him. He turned to John for explanation.

"Board game," John muttered, tight-lipped.

"Board game?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

"Cluedo. Sherlock's idea. Never again."

"But don't you two normally drop everything for something as intriguing as, say… a branded corpse?"

"Well, we would have been here a lot sooner if I hadn't have stepped on the tiny dagger that SOMEONE decided to hide in my shoe!"

"Clumsy." Sherlock sighed, sardonically.

"I could have lost a toe!"

"I thought it might be entertaining?"

Obviously suppressing the urge to chuckle, the DI exchanged a wry grin with John, before beckoning the pair to follow him.

"Come on then, you're here now; there are bodies to see, murderers to apprehend."

They followed him through to the, John allowing Sherlock to go ahead just in case he was planning to trip him up for the sake of 'entertainment'. As they entered the morgue the medicinal odour hit him, a sensory kickback to his military past. The bodies, the danger, and the guns, they never seemed to be a problem, just something he took in his stride nowadays, but the smell, that bouquet of disinfectant, blood, and death, never failed to take him right back to the war-zone. That smell sang of the hot dust that coated every wound and the screams of fellow officers as the meagre supplies of anaesthetic ran out. It was only a flash of memory, but it was all John needed to ground him. He had entered the room with his petty irritation at Sherlock burning in the forefront of his mind, but now he was all business, this body he was about to see was once a person. Sherlock may be the brains in this operation, but John had to be the heart; in a room full of dead bodies, he had to glow with compassionate vitality. So he breathed the scent in, and followed his friend over to the slab.

"Hi," Molly smiled up at them, her white coat contrasting with the blush spreading across her face, "Can I get you boys a coffee or something?"

"Evening, yeah I'd love a cup – white, one sugar, please?" John shrugged off his jacket and hung it up next to Lestrade's, picking Sherlock's up from the floor en route. "Sherlock says 'hi' by the way."

The detective was already absorbed with his examination, a state which rendered him deaf to events around him. He occasionally muttered short phrases such as 'skin pigmentation' and 'new razor', and John, knowing from experience that he was best left to it, moved to join Molly and Lestrade in the tiny kitchen.

"… when John picked his coat up."

"I know, Greg, but it's just the way they are together. I mean, if Sherlock ever-"

"-Bothered to look after his own belongings, the world would be a better place?" John reached over to pick up his mug from the work-surface.

"We were, err, talking about the case." Molly blushed furiously.

"Because if you were talking about Sherlock and me," he saw Greg and Molly exchanging guilty glances, "then I can assure you, for the hundredth time, that you have lost your minds."

"Look, we didn't mean-"

"I am not interested. I am not gay. I like women. In fact, I have a date tomorrow night."

"Another receptionist?" Lestrade smirked.

"Yeah… how did you know?" John raised his eyebrows, puzzled.

"Well, it's just easy, isn't it? It's not like you look very far afield for potential girlfriends."

"What' it to you if I do, Greg?"

"It's just that," the DI rolled his eyes, "you don't seem too picky when it comes to women. And it's not like any of your relationships last – just look at Sarah, Janet, Simone, Jeanette..." John's eyebrows rose further up his forehead.

"Sometimes, people can't see what's right in front of them. They don't realise how lucky they are." Molly spoke softly, fiddling with a button on her lab coat.

John stared at them both, blankly. Opening his mouth, he tried to form some sort of reply, but before he could -

"John, come here. I need you to look at this."

The imperious summons broke the awkward silence. Remembering, with a jerk, why he had come to the kitchen, John, a little hastily, knocked back a mouthful of coffee, and turned to head back out to the morgue.

"And just to be clear," he huffed, clearing his throat, "I am not going back out there because Sherlock wants me to. I am going out there because this is a case and this is my job."

He heard Lestrade choking on his drink as he left the room.

* * *

><p>"Right then, Sherlock, the killer: what should we be looking for?" Lestrade and Molly had joined the pair around the mortuary slab and waited for the world's foremost consulting detective to reveal his findings.<p>

"I don't know."

"What?"

"I don't. Know."

John thought they must have misheard; Sherlock loathed repeating himself. However, looking across, he saw bewilderment etched across the pale features.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" Molly voiced the thoughts of the group.

"There's nothing much to go on," the detective glanced up at them all, seeming equally confused at their open-mouthed stares.

"What about the massive gun-shot wound to the head? Or is that not interesting enough for you?" Lestrade was indignant with disbelief.

"Oh, sorry," Sherlock spread his hands out, dismissively, "I should have said 'there's nothing _new_ to go on'." Looking around at the blank faces, he continued, "Obviously there is a gun-shot wound to the head. Molly or John could tell you all about that. In fact, John, why don't you fill Gavin in?"

"It's Greg," John muttered as he scanned the body, "Right, so we have a male, mid 50s, with GSW to the head causing massive trauma and bleeding. Most likely this was the cause of death. He was shot from the front, though the attacker must have been substantially higher up as the entry wound is on the forehead, while the exit wound is much closer to the base of the skull. Also, the shot was taken from a short range, using a small pistol or handgun, judging by the wound diameter. He also has small lacerations to the upper arms and thighs, looks like fingernail marks, not his though, as they are pretty well chewed. Suggestive of possible recent sexual activity, presumably with a woman, as there is evidence of female ejaculate on the genitals. His nose has been broken at some point and, judging by the angle, not reset very well. Also, he is right-handed, a smoker, and in pretty good shape, though I'd say he'd lost quite a bit of weight recently. There is a small burn mark on the right bicep, which on closer examination does look to be some kind of branding. The edges are very clean-cut; looks like it might be a professional job, and it definitely was made post-mortem, just look at the lack of blood in the wound." Stopping for breath, he looked back up at the group, "well, how did I do?"

"Not bad at all, John," Sherlock's lips twitched in a sideways smile and John felt his face twitch with pleasure at the faint praise.

"Huh-hmm," Lestrade pointedly cleared his throat, "OK, so we know his measurements and shoe size, but what about that brand, Sherlock. Isn't that the reason you took the case?"

"Clearly," the detective was in a flash, all business.

"Well?"

"What do you want me to say? It was made using a brass stamp designed for wax seals, hence the sharpened edges and size of the brand. The 'S' and 'B' design is actually an abbreviation of the German noun '_sonderbehandlung_', meaning 'special treatment', or in the case of the dear old SS, a euphemism for murder. The small nicks on his index fingers and thumbs combined with the tan lines on his arms and neck suggest that he worked abroad and was heavily involved in counting paper notes. Judging by these vaccination scars, probably somewhere in South America, at a guess I would suggest Paraguay or Argentina. All of this would seem to put our man south of the border in a bank which presumably fronted a drug cartel or some other crimes syndicate, run by Nazi sympathisers with an old-fashioned taste for revenge. I imagine he had tried to cook the books and needed to be made an example of, hence the violent death and branding."

Sherlock folded his arms and rocked back on his heels, as though thoroughly bored with the proceedings. He looked at the dazed looks of astonishment on the faces around him and smirked slightly, as though waiting for one of them to express this incredulity. As per usual, it was John who piped up first.

"That was bloody amazing, Sherlock."

The detective once again shared with his companion that strange half-smile and John felt his cheeks glow. Lestrade, thankfully, did not notice this, as he too was focused entirely on Sherlock.

"Jesus, Sherlock! You're really telling me that you can know all that from just looking at this body for five minutes? I know you're good, but… seriously?"

Sighing with an air of resignation, the detective fixed Lestrade with a supercilious stare, "Of course I'm not."

They all stared at him, if possible, more blankly than before.

"I made it up, obviously. I told you before, I don't know anything much more than our dear doctor has already deduced. There's nothing interesting I can tell you, just stood here, I need to assess the rest of the evidence and the crime scene."

John opened and closed his mouth a few times, at a loss for words. It seemed that Lestrade and Molly were equally bamboozled. Rolling his eyes, as though the effort of explaining further irked him severely, Sherlock continued:

"Oh I see, so you were all happy to believe that some old-school Nazi, Argentinian drug-overlord murdered and branded this, frankly, pretty ordinary banker? And that somehow his body just happened to turn up in a central London hospital, right under the nose of the only man who might discover its dark secrets? What the finest from Scotland Yard should probably focus on instead, are the two major leads we have on this case. Firstly," he brandished a clear, polythene evidence bag in front of them, "this long, blonde hair – I would suggest this is the where you begin your search." He passed the bag across to the still-dumb DI.

"What's the other lead?" Swallowing his dignity, John tried to look as though he wasn't in the least bit fazed by Sherlock's misguidance. His face felt hot, though the room around him was cold; he hated it when his companion did this, making everyone around him feel small and insignificant. Earlier it had been all smiles and praise, and now… John just didn't want to be the one who missed something, who had disappointed him.

"I would have thought it was fairly obvious."

There was that tone again, and John felt his stomach swoop as though he had missed a step.

"The fingertips."

Molly's voice shook slightly, as it always did in Sherlock's presence, but nonetheless she held her own.

"Go on…" the detective's eyes flashed in approval, and John felt the stirrings of something unpleasant. Jealousy? He banished the thought almost as soon it appeared.

"It's the fingertips," Molly stuttered, "the skin around them is too mottled. I think we may have made a mistake with the date of death."

"And why is that?" Sherlock's encouragement gave her strength.

"Well, it all sounds a bit odd, but I'd say this body has been a corpse for much longer than we first thought."

John stared at the body, how could he have missed that? Of course, it was so obvious now. What had distracted him?

"Sorry if I'm missing a trick somewhere, but could somebody put all this in layman's terms for those of us not fully versed in Baker Street vernacular?" Lestrade sounded pretty put-out.

"It means," John said slowly, concentrating on the table, "that shortly after the murder took place, somebody decided to freeze the body."

He looked up and caught the almost imperceptible nod that Sherlock threw his way, and, despite himself, grinned foolishly.

Meanwhile, the detective, his eyes still locked with John's, could not having the last word.

"And that, _Greg_, is why I took the case."


	3. Taxi Rides

"So, a defrosted, branded body rocks up and Sherlock goes all quiet? Well, it's a new one on me." Lestrade sipped his coffee, wincing slightly as he glanced at his watch, "Do you think he even knows what time it is?"

"I'd say he's probably deleted it," John yawned lazily, leaning back against the cupboard and trying desperately to keep his eyes open. "I expect he's got lost in his mind palace, there's bound to be French dresser full of frozen corpses in there somewhere."

They had relocated to the kitchen once more, as Sherlock kept shushing any attempt at conversation. Besides, the warmth and coffee was infinitely preferable to the cold disinfectant of the lab. John glanced over at Molly, who had succumbed to sleep ten minutes earlier and was slumped down in the corner on the pile of coats.

"Come on, mate, we're all knackered. Sherlock can put his thinking cap on back at your place."

John nodded his acquiescence to Lestrade as he bent down to give Molly a gentle shake of the shoulder. Starting a little at awakening, their younger friend got shakily to her feet and leant heavily against the DI, sleepily mumbling apologies and dropping the scarf she had been holding.

"You alright getting her home, Greg?"

"No problem. I'll chase up any… um – "

"Leads?" John prompted.

"Yeah, leads," Lestrade sounded as tired and befuddled as he looked. "I'll chase them up tomorrow and let you know if I find anything."

"Cheers, now all I've got to do is get this one back to the flat," he gestured helplessly at Sherlock, who was now muttering to himself distractedly.

John looked around to find that Lestrade and Molly had already taken their leave. Sighing, he walked over to pick up their coats from the pile, blearily noting that the scarf Molly had been holding must have been Sherlock's. It was still warm to the touch, and he felt himself frowning unconsciously. Shrugging it off as some exhausted muscular twitch, he carried the coats over to Sherlock and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Come on, there's nothing more to see here tonight – we both need to go back and get some sleep."

The detective blinked as he resurfaced, taking his bearings.

"Ok."

It was John's turn to blink, "You mean you agree?"

"Well, yes, I can see that a few hours of REM would probably boost my ebbing neurone connectivity." He gave John an odd look, "Why have you got my coat and scarf?"

"You gave them to me? Or rather, you chucked them on the floo- oh, look, never mind! The taxi is here."

Too tired to fill Sherlock in on everything he had apparently 'deleted' from the last few hours, John thrust the bundle of garments in his flatmate's direction and headed, stumbling a little, for the door.

* * *

><p>Walking into the kitchen the next morning, John wasn't particularly surprised to see Sherlock already fully dressed and pacing around the living room. He would be surprised if his friend had slept for more than a couple of hours; the detective was an insomniac at best, and was rarely able to switch off completely during a case.<p>

"Mine's the red one," Sherlock gesticulated in the direction of the kitchen without pausing in his step.

Muttering under his breath, John resignedly shuffled over to the kettle, yawning hugely. He had slept, but not particularly well. Sherlock's restless energy was, it seemed, contagious, and he had spent a large portion of the night imagining thawed corpses dressed in dark scarves floating across his ceiling. He stared down at the two cups on the worktop; one red and one blue, already containing milk, teabags and (in his) a spoonful of sugar. Reaching over to the kettle, he felt the residual heat, and frowned.

"Oi, half-a-job Holmes! Was it just _too much_ to ask for you to actually pour the water in?"

"Mmm..."

"I mean, come on, Sherlock-"

"John, shut up!"

"What?" John let his mouth hang open in confusion, trying to fathom how the great detective might think that was any kind of an apology.

"That was Lestrade. He's found something." Sherlock waved a phone screen in John's direction.

"What was it?" John momentarily forgot his annoyance.

"ID, bank detail."

"And?"

"Well it justifies my original theory – an affair. There are frequent payments made to a boutique hotel in Holborn, and the last transaction was made several months ago at a small grocery store on Neal Street: a bunch of carnations and a small pack of Durex Performax."

"Lucky lady," John muttered dryly.

"Yes, well, romance aside, there was no follow-up payment for the hotel bill."

"Maybe she paid?"

"No, I don't think so," Sherlock frowned, "He's buying her flowers, he's the game-maker here. There's some old-fashioned notion that flowers are romantic, and if he's trying to woo her, there's little doubt that he would be the one footing the bill for their sex meetings."

John snorted and rolled his eyes, "Remind me never to go to you for dating tips."

Sherlock frowned again, and if John didn't know better, he might have seen a flash of emotion behind those sea-grey eyes. But whatever it was, it was gone in an instant, and the detective seemed to settle for his usual expression of tempered frustration.

"Obviously," he gestured to emphasise the clarity of the situation, "it was an affair. No couple would make such a regular thing of booking a hotel – it's too expensive and desperate. They obviously didn't want to be found out, hence the obscure location, and yet like the thrill of voyeurism, thus the hotel's proximity to the hubbub of Covent Garden. And then there's the hair."

"The one on his jacket?"

"Yes. It was long, blonde and feminine. His wife on the other hand, is a dark brunette with a considerably shorter coiffure."

"Wait a minute," John was confused, "his wife?" Then he saw what was lying on Sherlock's desk. "How many times," he picked up a polythene bag which contained a driving license and set of bank cards, "have I told you to stop stealing evidence from the Yard?"

Looking a little sheepish, Sherlock muttered something about it being quicker to process, but was spared further explanation when the doorbell rang.

"That's our taxi!" Demeanour changed in an instant, he leapt up and made for the door, coat and hat already in hand.

"And where are we going?"

"The hotel where he died, of course."

Already bounding down the stairs, John had to run to catch up. He was still tired and in desperate need of breakfast, but he found he didn't really care. His pulse quickened as he caught the scent of adventure: the game was back on, and boy, did he want to play.

* * *

><p>"So what do we know?" John leaned back into the leather seat as their taxi headed southward.<p>

Sherlock grinned across at him, and John felt his cheeks flush with the shared anticipation. These taxi journeys always felt strangely intense to John. Maybe it was the thrill of the chase, or the heady rush of a last-minute case solution, as they sped across the city. It could be the heady scent of leather, perfume, and money that seemed to permeate each dark interior. However, John never liked to dwell on the third possibility: that it was the physical proximity of Sherlock, the radiating heat of his body which every now and again would brush against John's own. Sometimes it was a stray foot across his ankle, or an elbow against his side, but always there was the shock of contact that made the doctor tense up slightly. John turned his head away to stare out the window, and cleared his throat, unwilling to explore that train of thought any further.

Sensing a sudden change in atmosphere, Sherlock returned to the previous question, frowning confusedly at the back of his friend's head.

"Kevin Lumb, 48, investment banker for a private financial company in Canary Wharf. One wife, Bridget, and two teenage children, with a lovely terraced house in the suburbs - the perfect nuclear family, you might think. But since January, Lumb had been disappearing off to the Hotel Royale to meet up with an older woman, Anna Thorne, a headmistress with whom he has been having an affair. He always pays. They began by meeting up a few times a month, but it soon became a weekly event, although there seems to have been a blip during the last month of contact – maybe one of them was getting cold feet. I'd say there was an element of power-play to their relationship, something of a teacher/pupil dynamic, judging by their conversations-"

"How could you possibly know that?" John span around, incredulity etched across his raised eyebrows.

"A simple exercise using the science of deduction and-"

"Oh, don't give me that. You had his ID – how can you possibly know about this Thorne woman and their kinky love-life based on a driving license?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the stitching around his coat button-holes.

"Oh," a knowing grin crept up John's cheeks, "You've been using Facebook again."

The detective continued to stare fixedly at his cuffs.

"Now what was it you said?" John tried for a haughty tone, "'Social media is a waste of the internet's resources and my considerable mental capabilities'" He laughed and shook his head, "Honestly, Sherlock."

Pointedly ignoring the doctor, who was still shaking with mirth, Sherlock looked out of the window to the grey streets.

"Come on, we're here." Standing up, he felt for something in his pocket, before throwing the object at John.

"Oi!, How long have you had my phone?"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock spoke in his 'stating-the-bloody-obvious' tone. "Well I'm not about to use my laptop to access Facebook. Can you even imagine the viruses?"

John sighed patiently, and made to follow his friend out of the taxi-door. Sherlock cleared his throat again, and in a casual deadpan added:

"Oh, and by the way, your date says she'll see you at 8pm."

By the time John had come up with a suitable reprimand for yet another invasion of his privacy, Sherlock was already in the hotel lobby, out of earshot. It might have been his hearing, but John he thought he had sensed something in his friend's tone. If it was an afterthought, it was a little too orchestrated and airy. He knew that Sherlock disliked extra-curricular activities when they were on a case, but he wasn't usually so coy about his annoyance. No, this was different, and if John didn't know any better, he would have said it sounded as though Sherlock was...

He took a deep breath and made a mental note to get his hearing checked out.

"Come on, Watson, get it together," he muttered.

Straightening his jacket, he walked up to the hotel lobby, peering through the boutique doors. Sherlock was waiting for him inside, his expression once again composed. But as he looked up and caught John's eye, they exchanged a look that made John's insides tilt strangely. It was a look that spoke volumes, and yet was so completely indecipherable, that the doctor was grateful for the solid pane of glass that separated them. He watched as Sherlock's cheeks gained a slight rosy sheen and his eyebrows creased in unaccustomed confusion. He looked more alone than John had ever seen him.

On instinct, the doctor pushed through the doors, and headed straight for his friend.

"Ouch-"

"I'm so sorry, sir, I didn't see you! Must have run into you. Please, sir, let me help you up."

Suddenly he was sat firmly on the carpet and looking up to see an abashed, blonde-haired bellboy apologising profusely. Embarrassed, John waved the man away, brushing his clothes down. When he looked up, Sherlock's pained expression had been replaced by a more familiar irritation, and he was glaring at the retreating employee.

"If they want to keep their four-stars, I would suggest they dispose of certain members of staff," the detective muttered in a not-so-quiet voice. "Come on, John. We've got a case to solve." He proffered a hand to his friend.

"Thanks," John took it and picked himself off the floor. He was surprised to find the warmth and strength in those long digits, for some reason he'd always assumed them to be as cool as their pale hue suggested.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"My hand?"

Realising he was still clasping it firmly, John instantly relinquished his grip and hurriedly thrust his own hands into his pockets.

"Sorry."

"That's ok." Sherlock was looking at him again, and this time John found that he couldn't quite meet his gaze.

"Right, yeah, well," he spluttered incomprehensibly, trying to break the tension that seemed to have blossomed once more between them, "the case?"

"Yes," the detective's answer was slow and thoughtful.

"Well are we going to see this room, or not? I mean, I have got a clinic I need to be getting back to if you've decided to call it a day." Assertion had returned to him at last.

"Come on, then. Room 201," Sherlock shifted back to normality in the blink of an eye. Twisting on his heel and winking at his friend, he headed for the lifts. "Upstairs, now, Dr Watson."

Taking a deep breath and ignoring the slight tremble in his legs, John followed.


End file.
